


A New Board Game

by JohnlockDragon (DearDarling)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 10 Quotes Challenge, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Banter, Catholic School, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, John with glasses, Johnlock Party, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Teenlock, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:24:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearDarling/pseuds/JohnlockDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock cannot help but notice that catholic school children struggle with chastity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"The wicked will not inherit the kingdom of god. We are here, as a respectable institution, to deliver you into the arms of the lord." The dull monotone voice droned on, his eyebrows fixed into a permanent scowl, his bottom lip convulsing as he continued.  
"And the lord pronounced you must respect your elders, therefore you shall respect my wishes - the wishes of the lord. This institution was founded to mold you into strong men and woman, pure and subdued in the eyes of the lord." Sherlock smirked, quickly glancing over his classmates, the most dull and conceited sample of humanity that could ever hope to be collected. "Strong" was not the word he would personally chose to describe the fickle collection of hormonal adolescence, and "pure" was a less than adequate description, judging by the ruffled uniforms and bloodshot eyes. The sermon continued to plod on relentlessly, Sherlock half amusing himself by deducing the weekend antics of the assembled teenagers, though that unavoidably became a tedious and boring occupation after a comparatively short space of time. After prayer and a begrudging amen from the assembly; the students scuffled outside.

As Sherlock breezed outside, he heard a familiar snigger behind him, a whisper of his name followed by muted laughter. He turned around to meet a familiar lanky boy from the year above, surrounded by his cronies, his girlfriend giggling with her gaggle just out of earshot, bags hidden under the clumpy makeup mask plastered to her face. She was clearly suffering from jet lag, not the after effect of promiscuous activities, judging by her manner and gait. Most likely her plane landed the night before.

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock suppressed a sigh. As amusing as Anderson could be, he was an absolute idiot.

“Back again for another year are we Holmes?” His friends sniggered as if he had performed some great act of wit.

“Clearly.” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “Was your girlfriend on holiday for long?”

Anderson looked confused, a faint flush tainting his cheeks.

“Oh don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that.”

“My deodorant?” Anderson looked bewildered.

“It’s for men.” Sherlock replied, as if the conclusion was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Is this some sort of faggot mind trick you’re trying to play? I’m nothing like you.” Anderson replied, clearly exasperated.

“Oh I quite agree Anderson; you’re on another level entirely. At least you wear men’s deodorant.” Sherlock replied with a smirk.

“Well of course it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”

“So is your girlfriends best friend” Sherlock replied coolly, turning to take his leaves as the usual chorus of “ooooh’s” erupted from Anderson's cronies. “Pure” indeed. A sour faced teachers head turned at the noise, her mouth puckered as she spat;  
“As long as you have quite finished boys, please leave immediately and allow the other respectable students to mull over the meaning of today’s sermon, as you clearly neglected to pay any attention.” Sherlock continued, not breaking his stride to turn back.


	2. Snapping Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock - whilst wandering the school corridoors- runs into Jim, his partner of sorts.

Saint Margret’s was a typically dreary Catholic high school in north Surrey. It met the precise expectations of Sherlock Holmes at age 16, as he entered the establishment, readily deducing the life stories, secrets and inclinations of all those nesting in the stifling school corridor. Sherlock could practically hear the cogs spinning in their funny little brains as they struggled to form a coherent thought. Sherlock categorically deduced each of his future classmates, before promptly deleting the unnecessary and cluttering information. Sixth form promised to be as dull as any other year of his “education.”

“God, ordinary people do fill their heads with all sorts of rubbish.” Sherlock half muttered under his breath.

“Aren't they adorable?” A high voice crooned from behind. Sherlock paused before slowly turning around, to find a pale face smirking up at him, one eyebrow cocked expectantly.

“They wonder around like ants, following an unknown path, unaware of their purpose, fulfilling only their basic function.” The boy sighed theatrically. “Staying alive, so boring - isn’t it?”

Sherlock smirked at the figure in front of him. Sophisticated, obsessive, passive aggressive, perhaps physically aggressive. Bored. Significantly less boring than the other creatures mulling around the school grounds.

“Good summer Jim?” Sherlock smiled, turning his head to throw his face into stark relief in the pale artificial light. Moriarty almost growled, before laughing lightly like a child.

“Oh how I missed you Sherl.” Jim giggled, eyes wide, before they narrowed to slits as he glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder. He stretched up towards Sherlock’s lips, slowly pressing their bodies together. He slid his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip, forcing him to open his mouth wider. Jim pulled back with a grin. Sherlock saw a horrified nun shuffle off down the corridor, her lips muttering something about Satan’s spawn and forgiveness. Both boys chuckled.

“You’re so cruel to them Jim.” Sherlock spoke, his voice low and husky, yet maintaining its usual clarity. 

“Don’t tell me you became a good little boy over the summer.” Jim said, a mocking pout painted upon his face. “I couldn't leave you alone if I thought you were so easily swayed.”

Of course. Sherlock thought. Jim’s toys had grown old; he wanted a new board to play his games on. Transferred. Somewhere near, he still wanted absolute control, but wanted to build his empire. Sherlock would have to find another method by which to occupy his time. Jim would, of course, still drop in from time to time, but Sherlock would have to seek another primary occupation.

 

It was through a mutual inability to cope with the boredom surrounding them that had caused Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes to become swift, well, what other members of the school would call friends. Both boys understood this was not the case. Sherlock Holmes did not have friends, and Jim Moriarty had no inclination to form friendships either. He wanted power. He was the puppet master, and within the first term, he had wound his strings around all the occupants of Saint Margret’s. And now the strings were wound tight, and Jim had grown tired.

As they had grown older, their “friendship” had become more. A means of exploration. A distraction for Sherlock, a source of entertainment for Jim. At age 15 they had been sprawled over Jims bed, a pathetic excuse for Biology homework discarded, Moriarty’s finger’s twisted in Sherlock’s Curls, their legs entwined, clawing at each other like tigers. Teeth and tongues trailing down Moriarty’s neck.

 

“A shame for you to leave so soon.” Sherlock stated blankly.

“I’ll be in touch.” Moriarty wiggled his fingers at Sherlock, sauntering off down the corridor.

 

“Watch where you're going, faggot.” A thug barged into him. Sherlock suppressed a sigh. It would be a long two years without Jim to control him puppets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments please I don't know what I'm doing


	3. The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter John.  
> Yes Sherlock you should be confused.

When Sherlock finally made his way to AS Biology, the class was already packed with overly masculinised males craving to prove their worth by getting their hands on some gory dissections, whilst pleasing Mummy and Daddy with an option which could lead to a career in medicine. The predictable text book girls sat at the front, tuned to both the teacher and their grades, whilst focusing on the peacocking males behind them. Sherlock would not be sitting anywhere near that area of the classroom. It would soon evolve into a hormonal war zone. He made his way towards the back of the room, settling for a vacant desk in the corner from which he had a clear view of the entire classroom.   
As the school bell rang a short figure dashed into the classroom, sandy hair a sticking up in all directions, wiry glasses on the wonk, huffing and puffing as if the hounds of hell had been chasing them. Yet another student late for school. But there was something else behind the ruffled clothing, the poorly knotted tie, and the creases on his trousers. The bags under his eyes told a story of long term sleep deprival, of stress and anxiety. Family trouble. Arguments late at night. An absent father; a neglected sister. Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He knew it was invasive, that people were uncomfortable with having their lives laid out in front of them, but Sherlock couldn't help it. It was like they were screaming at him. The boy plonked down beside him.  
“Good Morning.” he said with a smile.  
“Morning,” Sherlock replied, slightly surprised the boy had chosen to sit down at the back, rather than attempting to mingle with other students, as it was clearly his first time at the school. Before either party could advance the conversation any further, the teacher called for their attention, and the lesson began.  
***  
Two chokingly boring hours later the bell rang, and the class began to scuffle and gather their belongings like a somewhat rusty machine.   
“That was interesting.” the boy spoke with charming clarity, clearly addressing Sherlock, much to his surprise.  
Sherlock barely managed to stop his eyes from rolling, if that was interesting, clearly this boys intelligence, and perhaps his integrity, was questionable.   
“God forbid if that was as interesting as it’s going to get.” Sherlock groaned.  
“It could be worse.” The boy replied, smiling ruefully. “I mean it was really educational.” The sarcasm was thick in his throat, his eyes glittering with echoes of laughter.  
“You evidentially have faith that it shall improve.” Sherlock rallied back, matching the Boys sarcasm.   
“I lost my faith a long time ago.” The boy spoke with a smile, but his tone had turned suddenly sad and serious. He waved, and turned to leave. Sherlock blinked. He wasn't used to be walked away from. He always decided when a conversation was over. He usually got bored. He hoped the trend didn't continue; Sherlock liked control.

***

Sherlock lay on his bed, deep in thought. John Watson. What an ordinary name. Maybe the reason he had walked away was because he had found Sherlock boring. Was he not intriguing? Did he not inspire inquiry? Was he not resourceful; dynamic; enigmatic?   
And then there was the way he had said “Good morning.” The weather was not particularly fine, and the day held no promise of being “good,” that much was clear. So by saying good morning, did he mean the morning was good, as he was meeting Sherlock? Obviously not, perhaps John was looking forward to something later in the day, although his body language had shown no signs of anticipation. How strange.  
And then he had declared the lesson to be “interesting.” The lesson had been anything but “interesting,” even for the dimmest of the class members. Even the teacher seemed to find the lesson boring, and they were paid to be there.   
And then, there was the way he had smiled. So hauntingly sad, yet so bright. Had he been laughing at himself, or laughing at Sherlock? Had he been mocking him? Sherlock was not accustomed to such uncertainty. This guesswork was destructive to the logic faulty. He always knew. John Watson raised too many questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know this is crap but I'm stressed and need to avoid being productive.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments?


End file.
